A Christmas Story by Victoria Chatham

 

AVAILABLE HERE

After discussing Christmas-themed stories with friends, I came up with this short story. Indulge in your favourite beverage, sit by a warm fire, and take a few minutes to read through it. I hope you enjoy it. Greetings of the season and Merry Christmas to everyone.

BEN’S CHRISTMAS WISH 

Two days before Christmas and Mom and Dad were arguing again. Ben sighed. At six years old, he knew Christmas was supposed to be a happy time but, listening to the rise and fall of his parents’ voices as they tramped from the kitchen into the hallway and then back again, he didn’t think they’d ever be happy again.

            It seemed to Ben they’d been arguing ever since he had asked, again, if he could have a kitten. He’d wished for one at Easter but only received a chocolate Easter egg. He’d asked for a kitten for his birthday, but Dad said no. And now he’d written a letter as best he could, asking Father Christmas for a kitten and that had made Dad cross.

            Ben pushed back his comforter and slipped out of bed. He quietly opened his bedroom door a crack and still heard the murmur of voices below. In a sudden blast of motion, Dad came into the hall. Ben sneaked onto the landing and peered between the railings. He watched Dad pull on his jacket, zip it up and reach for a warm toque. A gust of cold air swept in as the front door opened and closed with a bang. Dad was gone.

            Ben could hear his mom crying in the silence, making soft snuffly noises. He didn’t like hearing her cry and went back into his bedroom, thinking hard. Dad said it was best to ask right away when he had any questions, so that was what he would do. He’d find Dad and ask him why he was cross and why Mom was so upset.

            He pulled his Blue Jay Minors sweatshirt over his pyjamas, searched for his Fireman Joe socks under the bed and wiggled his toes into them. He sneaked out onto the landing, heard his mom talking and guessed she had phoned her best friend Jill, who lived next door. He made his way downstairs and reached into the closet for his coat and boots. He hadn’t heard the car start and thought Dad couldn’t have gone far. If he ran, Ben knew he could catch up with him. He pulled his boots on and let himself out of the house.

            The cold nearly took his breath away. He zipped his coat and pulled the collar up around his ears. He should have put on a hat, too, but he was not going back until he found Dad. Snow had already fallen, and Dad had shovelled into great heaps on either side of the driveway. Ben could barely see over them to the sidewalk beyond.

            He knew if he turned left, that would take him past Jill’s house and on around the block. If he turned right and walked for a couple of blocks, he would reach the plaza where Mom shopped and sometimes took him for a burger and fries. He liked looking in the store windows and especially liked the gazebo in the centre. Bands played there in the summer, and sometimes there were clowns and face-painting. Now there was a little crib with Baby Jesus and Mary and Joseph. Mom had told him the story about there being no room at the inn, and he felt real sorry for any baby born in a stable.

            Ben had his head down against the cold. As he crunched through the snow, he realized his boots were on the wrong feet and were pinching but did not stop to change them. He had to find Dad. Looking around the plaza, Ben saw that all the stores were closed, and their lights were out. What time must it be for all the lights to be out?

            The only bright spot was a soft glow from the gazebo. He stood for a moment listening to the bitter wind moaning in the bare trees and the Christmas decorations rattling against the ornamental streetlamps on which they hung. He was suddenly scared, knowing this wasn’t right and that he wouldn’t find Dad here.

            Ben ran towards the warm glow of the little lantern hanging above the crib in the gazebo. Mom said Baby Jesus knew just about everything, so he ducked under the guard rail and moved closer to ask where his dad had gone. Bending towards the crib, Ben heard a soft, mewing cry. He reached over and parted the straw in the crib. Something moved, and Ben quickly stepped back. Whatever it was, it was still crying and would not come out. He reached out again, this time moving the straw to one side.

            There in the crib, curled up and crying beside Baby Jesus, lay a kitten. It was gray and white with black stripes on its head and sides. It opened its mouth, showing tiny teeth and a pink tongue, as it tried to stand up on wobbly legs.

            “You’re cold,” Ben said. “Come on, little kitty, I can warm you up.”

            He unzipped his jacket, picked up the kitten and tucked it inside. He liked the way its fur tickled his chin, and the crying changed to a happy purr. Ben could feel the vibrations through its tiny body. It was like holding his Robby Robot with the battery running. He sat with his back against the crib, talking to the kitten, forgetting for the moment that he was looking for Dad.

            The kitten was more important. Dad wore a big coat to protect him against the cold. The kitten didn’t have a coat. Dad would know how to get home, but Ben thought the kitten must be lost. Dad could take care of himself, but the kitten had no one but Ben to take care of it right now.

            “You know what, little kitty,” Ben whispered. “Mom helped me write a letter to Father Christmas at the North Pole, and I asked for a little kitten. I think you’re it, and I’m going to call you Christmas.”

            Ben was so engrossed in the kitten that he jumped when a voice somewhere way above him suddenly said, “Now, now, young fella, what’s going on here?”

            Ben hadn’t heard anyone approaching. When he looked up, all he could see was a big belly and above that a vast expanse of white beard. Ben had been told not to talk to strangers many times, but there was something comforting in this man’s voice, and he looked a little bit familiar.

            “Come on, son, give me your hand. I’ll help you up.”

            Ben took the offered hand and allowed himself to be helped to his feet. He was stiff with cold.

            “What have you got there?” the man asked.

            “It’s a kitten,” Ben said. “I think he’s lost.”

            “Are you lost?”

            Ben shook his head. “No, I was looking for my dad but found this kitty instead.”

            “Does your mom know you are out looking for your dad?”

            Ben shook his head again.

            “Well now, it seems to me we should take care of a few things here. First, let’s call your mom, so she doesn’t worry. Know your telephone number, son?”

            “Yes.” Ben took the cell phone the big man handed him and punched in his number. It rang once, and then his mom said, “Hello.”

            “Hi, Mom, it’s me. I went to look for Dad and found a kitten…”

            “Ben. Thank goodness. Where are you?” Mom’s voice sounded shaky, and Ben thought she might still be crying.

            He squinted up at the big man beside him. “I’m in the plaza with Baby Jesus and Father Christmas.”

            Then his father came on the line. “Stay there, Ben. We’ll be right over.”

            Ben couldn’t figure out how he’d missed Dad. “My Dad got home,” he said as he handed the phone back to Father Christmas.

            “That’s good. Now you’ll be going home to join them.”

            Ben sniffed and dropped his head to nuzzle the kitten in his jacket.

            “Now what’s that face for?” Father Christmas asked.

            “I don’t know if Mom and Dad have stopped being mad at each other, an’ I don’t like when they shout. I think I made them cross,” Ben whispered.

            “Well now, that’s possible, I’ll grant you, but sometimes other things that have nothing to do with their boys or girls make moms and dads cross.”

            “Really?” Ben wanted to believe him, wanted to forget Mom crying.

            “Yes, really. You’ll see and, if I’m not mistaken, this is your mom and dad now.”

            A car, headlights slicing the night, slipped sideways on the entry into the plaza, fishtailed again and drove across the empty parking lot towards them. The doors opened, and Mom and Dad were there, together, hugging him, scolding him, asking if he was all right.

            “I am, but I think you’re squishing my kitty,” Ben said. He opened his jacket and out popped the little striped head, protesting noisily at the cold night air and the commotion around it.

            “Oh, Ben, where on earth did you find it?” Mom stroked the kitten with a gentle finger.

            “It was with Baby Jesus, Mom. Can I keep him, please?”

            He saw the look pass between his parents, and then Dad said, “We’ll take it home with us for tonight and phone the animal shelter in the morning. It might just belong to another boy, and we will have to give it back.”

            “But if it doesn’t, if no one comes for it, can I please keep it?” Ben persisted. He held the kitten protectively against his chest with one hand and shook Dad’s arm with the other.

            “Ben, we’ve been over this pet thing a hundred times…”

            “I know, I know, but I promise, I really promise I’ll look after it. I will, Dad, you’ll see.”

            Dad looked Mom. “Susan?”

            It surprised Ben to see a smile curve his mom’s mouth. That pleased him. It was much nicer than tears.

            “Your call, Don.” Mom spoke so softly Ben could barely make out the words. He looked at his father and saw that he was smiling now.

            “Christmas, you’ve got a home,” he whispered to the kitten.

            “In the car, Ben,” Dad said, “and the kitten too. We’ve all had enough adventures for one night. It’s time to go home and get warm.”

            “And Father Christmas,” Ben said. “We have to take him too.”

            The big man laughed. “I’m not Father Christmas, son. My name’s Bill Bryce. I’m the security guard here.”

            He shook hands with mom and dad, wished them all a Merry Christmas and walked away to continue his rounds as Ben got into the car.

            As soon as the doors closed and Dad started the motor, Ben opened his jacket, and the kitten crawled out.

            “You know what, Christmas,” Ben said happily, “we’re going to have the best one ever.”

THE END

           

Victoria Chatham

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A new National Park. Another dead body.

 After a book reading, one of the attendees asked me why I kept killing off people in National Parks. "I've visited dozens of National Parks. They're safe, like Disneyland, only in the wild." 

Having spent the winter in Arizona, I was armed with a quick and factual answer, "Six people died in Grand Canyon National Park falls in the first five months of this year." She was aghast and accused me of making up that number. I assured her those people all died when they fell from cliffs, and the number has climbed significantly since the advent of the "selfie." A selfie usually involves someone trying to capture themselves in a picture with some attractive background. That's not a big deal if you're trying to take a picture of yourself with Justin Trudeau in a restaurant, but it's much riskier if you're back is to a cliff and you're not paying attention to the precipice behind you.

Aside from the dangers of vertical drops, national parks have a variety of animal hazards, from Bison and Kodiak bears, to snakes and alligators. A Yellowstone National Park wildlife photographer was using a telephoto lens to capture pictures of a napping wolf pack. To his horror, a pair of hikers, deeply absorbed in a discussion and not paying attention to their surroundings, walked within 20 yards of the Alpha male wolf. Rising from his bed, the wolf watched the hikers walk by the pack without the hikers ever realizing they'd passed within two leaps of a wild predator. A nature magazine published the series of photos. I wonder if the hikers were ever shown the visual evidence of their close call?

Last year, a woman in the Black Hills wandered close to a Bison calf while snapping pictures. She was so absorbed in her quest for the perfect baby buffalo picture that she didn't notice the calf's mother until it snagged her belt with its horn. Other tourists recorded the ensuing encounter on video as the woman was tossed by the Bison like a rag doll until her belt broke. The woman survived the incident, but not without mental and physical scars. A number of parks have used that video to remind visitors that the park animals are wild and they need to maintain a safe distance from them. (i.e. can you run to the safety of your car before the Bison reaches to you?)

Not all of nature's perils are cliffs and wild animals. The remains of a hiker, lost since the 1980s, were recently recovered from Glacier National Park. He'd been hiking alone and apparently got caught in a snow squall. Disoriented, he probably died of hypothermia. Dozens of park visitors disappear every year. Most lose track of the fact that they're in a place that's maintained in its rugged wild state so people can enjoy the beauty of nature. They're shocked when they wander away from the trail, or their group, and their cell phones don't have coverage. Another surprise comes when there's not an ambulance ten minutes away if they're injured. I touched on that in "Down River".

As a mystery writer, I find those true stories intriguing. By adding nasty people to the Fictional stories, there are endless possibilities. Yes, there are jerks even in pristine park settings. More National Park Service employees are injured by visitors than by animals, falls, and weather. That's a scary statistic which led the park service to issue bulletproof vests to their law enforcement rangers, as I did in "Death in Shifting Sands".

That statistic also led me to the "Grave Survey" plot. A pair of surveyors disappear in a remote area of Big Cypress National Preserve, while marking oil drilling lease boundaries. The Park Service is unable to locate them or their vehicle. Are they the victims of aggressive eco-protesters? Is there an oil company unhappy with their lease boundaries? Were they eaten by alligators? Or, is there some other human factor involved, like drugs, love, or money?

Visit my author page on the BWL publishing website and click on the cover picture to buy "Grave Survey" and discover the answer.

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Will my book club like the insolence of Lady Pencavel? by Diane Scott Lewis

 

To purchase The Defiant Lady Pencavel: CLICKHERE

Check out all my historical novels: BWLDSL

I had nothing to post with a Christmas theme, but how about a sharp-tongued miss who refuses to conform to the restrictions of the 18th century? Purely a parody and farce, of course. I take all the "romance" tropes and turn them on their heads. "heaving bosoms" and more.

But will my book club like this story or be insulted that I dare make fun of historical romance, as many on-line reviewers were?  

My book club met at Zach's to eat and discuss Lady Pencavel
I'm in the back on the right.

.

One older lady loved it and found it very romantic. She didn't see the 'parody' aspect. Another older lady agreed with her. One said she thought the maid, Clowenna, a little stereotypical. (I loved that character!)

"Funny, teasing and tearing down all the tropes of romance," another said.

"It's accessible to a new reader, plus an experienced reader will understand the layers of poking fun, the satire," our librarian said.

They wanted to know where I found all the unusual Cornish surnames. I had the perfect link for Cornish names and their meanings, but can no longer find it. But other sites are out there.

The consensus was, they loved it, and the majority understood the farce, and didn't think that I'd insulted the romance genre.

My thoughts, romantic stories should be plausible, and not instant love, I must have you forever; though I've heard that happens.

If you want a laugh, and a few winks at propriety, give The Defiant Lady Pencavel a try.

To find out more about me and my books, please visit my website: DianeScottLewis

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with her husband and one naughty dachshund.

Ringing in the Season by Helen Henderson

 

Windmaster Golem
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At a recent marketing workshop, the instructor emphasized the importance of authors sharing. Not just their words, but also insights into themselves. Something not always easy for an introvert to do. This time of year you can't walk into any store without hearing (or depending on the store and song, having your ears assaulted) by holiday music. I chose to share a few which have a special association.

Carol of the Bells - besides the lyrical rhythm, this song reminds me of my museum directorship when the sound of the local choir reverberated throughout the 1700s-era house. Then there is the youthful exuberance of a bell choir ringing the tune at a Christmas Eve service.

 

Courtesy of Jennifer Webb at Pixabay

Adeste Fideles (O Come All Ye Faithful- Many, many years ago (not saying how many) when I was in what would be considered middle school, I was tapped to do a duet of the song in Latin. I spent days learning the English verses and my duet part. However, shortly before the concert, the director decided the Latin verse was to be a solo and I was kicked down to general member of the choir and the understudy. I didn't perform that night, but to this day when O Come All Ye Faithful is sung at a church service, I softly sing the second verse in Latin. Admittedly, it has gained me some side glances.

I'll Be Home For Christmas - While Irving Berlin's White Christmas as performed by Bing Crosby has 50 million copies, it is another recording by Crosby that beats it out for inclusion in the list. I'll Be Home For Christmas provided solace to overseas U.S. troops during World War II. The aspect that calls to my soul is that as part of his USO shows, Crosby sang it to American troops who would never return home. These days I'll Be Home For Christmas is featured in commercials for the Shriners Children's Hospitals.

Snoopy's Christmas - has been a special favorite since it first came out. Some might consider it irreverent because it features a cartoon character. For me, the references to the 1914 Christmas Truce of World War I show a spirit of the season, of peace coinciding with duty and honor.

The next two songs come from my mother who picked I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus. - The song describes a scene where a child walks downstairs from his bedroom on Christmas Eve to see his mom kissing "Santa Claus" under the mistletoe. The lyric concludes with the child wondering how his father will react on hearing of the kiss, unaware of the implication that Santa Claus is merely his father in a costume.

Silent Night - now triggers a special memory. As I had for several years, I took my mother with me to Christmas Eve service. She hadn't sung since surviving two massive strokes, but seemed to enjoy the outing. To this day I don't know what changed, but as the congregation started singing, I heard the words in a soft, little voice alongside me.

Many other songs catch my attention during the holidays. Some are secular, others religious, and some are nonsensical. Whatever your favorite song is, may it bring you joy and peace this holiday season.

~Until next month, stay safe and read. Helen

 To purchase the Windmaster Novels: BWL

Find out more about me and my novels at Journey to Worlds of Imagination. Follow me online at Facebook, Goodreads or Twitter.

Helen Henderson lives in western Tennessee with her husband. While she doesn’t have any pets in residence at the moment, she often visits a husky who have adopted her as one the pack. 

Christmas Memories by Nancy M Bell

 

To discover more about Storm and this Christmas tale as well as Nancy's other books click on the cover.

We always put the tree up on December 20th as that is my birthday. Mom and Dad never wanted to put the tree up earlier than that as we always had a real tree and they worried that it would dry out.

We had these really cool bubble lights that were all different colors but got really hot when you left them on too long. There was a fluffy white angel on top.

One Christmas Eve when we were still outside in the driveway just getting out of the car Wendy and I got a huge surprise.  There, coming down the Cooney’s driveway, who were our next door neighbors, was Santa Claus! 

 We both screamed and then bolted for the back door.  If Santa came while were still up and awake he wouldn’t leave us anything.  We tore through the back door into the kitchen and down the back hall to the bedroom.  With our wet snow boots and coats still on Wendy and I scrambled into bed and pulled the covers over our heads.  I had a harder time getting into bed as I had to climb up into the top bunk, but I made it.  Mom and Dad came in and tried to get us to take off our coats and boots and change into night clothes.  Wendy and I wouldn’t budge, we were pretending to be asleep so that Santa would leave our presents.  We were sure that he was coming to our house any moment because we KNEW he just next door and he hadn’t been to our house next.  He must have already been to Jo-anne and John Lee’s place because they lived on the other side of the Cooneys, so we had to be next.  Mom and Dad must have removed our boots after we were asleep because they were gone in the morning.  And Santa did leave our presents for us that year. 

Things changed in 1964, June was married and living on Homestead Ave with Butch and my brother Timmy was born in July.  So Christmas 1964 was a little different.  There was one more of us to track all over the city to visit my aunts.

Sometime in the 1960’s Aunt Gloria and Uncle Tommy and Cindy and Tammy-Lori moved to Toronto.  My Grandma and Grandpa Rafter moved from Constance Lake near Ottawa and bought a little store on Davis Lake, near Kinmount.  Every winter they would come to Toronto and stay with Aunt Gloria and Uncle Tommy, so now we had even more excitement and visiting on Christmas Eve.  We often went to Aunt Gloria and Uncle Tommy’s for New Year’s dinner.  The turkey dressing was always yucky, it had so much sage in it ( which Gramma Rafter LOVED) and sometimes sausage. Not my favorite part of the meal I’ll tell you.  There was always way too much to eat, tons of turkey and cranberries, mashed potatoes and gravy.

 Our Christmas dinner at home was always large.  June and Butch and their sons Geoff, Peter and Terry would come. My Aunt Frances and Uncle Jim came on Christmas afternoon early and brought their sausage dog with them.  The first dog I remember was Sandy who was quite portly and smelled like DOG.  He would bite my dad if he tried to discipline us in front of him.  We liked Sandy.  Sandy would also dance with us, running around while we pranced around laughing.  Aunt Frances always gave us Avon for Christmas and her packages were always decorated with cool stuff. Uncle Jim is my mother’s only brother and he has one daughter Marilyn who lives in the States.  There would also be My Gramma and Grampa Pritchard who lived with us, Wendy and me and Timmy.  Mom would pull the big table with all the leaves in it out into the middle of our small living room and the table would stretch from the front window to the door to the kitchen.  It was set with these cool plates that we only used at Christmas, all pale yellow ,blue and pink around the edges with white roses in the centre.  Mom used her good silverware that Dad bought her one year for Christmas and a tablecloth that never seemed to escape the cranberries or the gravy. Our small house was full of the smell of turkey and gravy and boiling potatoes.  There never seemed to be enough room but somehow everyone managed to get seated at the table and Dad would carve the turkey. Wendy and I would fight over the drumsticks, although in later times Timmy always got one.

 Dad had this movie camera that required a bar of really bright lights in order to film anything.  In most of film from those years we all look like moles that have wandered into the sunlight.  Our faces are red (the lights were hot) and our eyes all squinted shut. Timmy running around with his diapers drooping off his butt.  Wendy always made sure her hair was combed and she looked presentable before going upstairs. Me, not so much. 

So much has changed since then. Places at the table hold different faces now, but the magic still holds us in hollow of its hand. Christmas Joy and Peace to you and yours, in this season and throughout the year.

 

 

Thoughts of Christmas Past and Present by Janet Lane Walters #BWLAuthor #MFRWAuthor #Christmas trees #Ornaments

 

Before the memories, once again, Ashled decorated the porch for Christams. The interesting thing I noticed while driving up street. There are a few more porches with lights and decorations. The following pictures will give you an idea of the porch.

This one shows the partly decorated tree through the window. Only 100 more ornaments to find a space for.

My parents alwasy waited until Christmas Eve to put up the Christmas tree after we were in bed. Then came the year I was old enough to help. Actually, I helped because this was the one Christmas when my father a steelworker wasn't on strike. Just as it began to be dark, my friend and I took his wagon to the VFW who sold trees. To get there, we could go one of two ways. The one was to cross a busy street and down the hill through a tunnel. The other was to cross the railroad tracks and take the less steep street down. Of course we crossed the railroad tracks since no trains were due. I had a dollar to buy a tree. This was 75 years ago, a dollar bought a lot. After buying one of the few trees left, we loaded it on the wagon. The tree hung over front, back and sides. But we managed to get the tree home without losing too many needles. With the help of a neighbor we set the tree on the table . The ceilings in the row house were twelve feet high and the tree nearly touched the ceiling. The table was necessary since my brother was two years old and a busy child. Mother and I started to trim the tree. The lights went on easily and so did the ornaments until I slipped on the ladder and managed to cut a swath of ornaments. Interesting only two broke. I still have one of the glass ornaments on my present tree. That was my best memory of Christmas, knowing I was no longer a child but grownup at the age of ten.

This year my granddaughter and I bought a new artificial tree. I've used one since the year I had both knees replaced and knew I couldn't get down to water the tree. This one is marvelous with both white and colored lights and it changes color constantly. The decorations are quite different. The pictures that follow are of my dragon ornaments.

Below are the standing dragons/

Here are the ones that must be hung.

As you can see, there are many. I think there are fifteen. This year I bought four, Three silver and one dark red guarding a gem.

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Where there is love, by J.C. Kavanagh

 

The Twisted Climb
Book 1 of the award-winning Twisted Climb series

The Christmas season is a time for love, a time for giving, and a time for sharing. It's a time for family gatherings and friendships renewed. We know there is strife in all corners of the world - we're reminded of it every time we watch the news. And sadly, there is often strife in our own family 'world.' However - if there was ever a perfect time to put strife aside and embrace love, Christmas-time is that time.

I would say the spirit of Christmas is best summed up in one word: Love.

To paraphrase an old Christmas song:

Where there is love, there is joy. 

Where there is love, there is peace.

Where there is love, there is hope.

Where there is love, there is eternal optimism. 

In The Twisted Climb series, Jayden's father loves her unconditionally - whether she is nice or even when she chooses to be a bully. Jayden's mother is not so loving. Her addictions and behaviors display what happens when there is NO love. 

Though Christmas day is still a couple of weeks away, I would encourage all you readers to embrace your family, your loved ones and be the place where there is love.

With love,

J.C.

J.C. Kavanagh, author of
The Twisted Climb - Darkness Descends (Book 2)
voted BEST Young Adult Book 2018, Critters Readers Poll and Best YA Book FINALIST at The Word Guild, Canada
AND
The Twisted Climb,
voted BEST Young Adult Book 2016, P&E Readers Poll

Voted BEST Local Author 2021, South Simcoe, Ontario, Canada
Novels for teens, young adults and adults young at heart
Email: author.j.c.kavanagh@gmail.com
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An Alternative to Christmas Gifts

 

 

A long-standing tradition in North America is the purchase and gifting of Christmas gifts.  Friends and family members are listed, shopping lists prepared, gifts purchased, wrapped and mailed (or delivered.)  

Certainly gifts given or received bring joy and remembrance to all concerned. But this is not always an easy task. My wife and I always encounter questions as to what to get for who. Sending ties or shirts that most likely will never move out of closets is a definite no-no. Others, such as parents, claim that they don’t want anything. And these days, inflation and COVID lockdowns have pinched everyone’s budgets.

Fortunately, there are alternatives to gifting store-bought presents. Here are a few ideas:

1.        Home-baked cookies. Besides being economical, the personal touch is always appreciated. I remember an erstwhile neighbor popping by with an apple pie during the holidays. My family loved it!

2.      Charity Gift Cards: A unique kind of gift, the Charity Gift Card allows the gift-giver to purchase a certain amount of money on a Charity Gift Card. This card is given to a recipient, who can choose a charity to which the amount can be donated.

3.      Organize your family to a volunteer program: Many Charities—homeless shelters, soup kitchens, church or temple programs, food pantries—find themselves overwhelmed during the holidays. The need for volunteers is at the greatest during this time. Spending a day helping out at one of these places would be most welcome. Please call before-hand.

4.      Family photos: For family and close friends, receiving photos is always appreciated. A favorite, especially if you have little ones, they will be placed in albums and cherished for years to come.

5.      Gifting books. Finally, my favorite. Books used to be a common gift item, but sadly, this tradition is disappearing. As a writer, I fight back against this trend. I have given copies of my books, autographed, to both family and friends. They assure me that they have read them, but even if they don’t, I know that they value receiving something printed with my name on it!

 

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to all.

Mohan Ashtakala (www.mohanauthor.com) is the author of "The Yoga Zapper," a fantasy, and "Karma Nation," a literary romance. He is published by Books We Love (www.bookswelove.com.) 

 

What's in a name"... by Sheila Claydon

Click here for more of my books including my When Paths Meet trilogy

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet." 

 So said William Shakespeare when he wrote Romeo and Juliet c 1600.

Well when you are writing a book where the protagonists travel back over the centuries, I am afraid names do matter! 

It wasn't until I was over halfway through writing the final book of my Mapleby Memories trilogy, part of which is set 600 years ago, that I thought to check the name of my heroine, Sophie. When I did, I discovered that it is a derivation of the Greek Sophia (meaning wisdom) and has been a common female name in Eastern Orthodox countries since the fourth century. What it wasn't, however, was a common medieval name in the English Middle Ages. I'm not even sure it was a name people had heard of, so to keep my story as authentic as possible, Sophie had to go. 

In her place I have chosen Alice. Strangely, Alice also derives from the Ancient Greek ('aletheia - truth), but for some reason it is a name that travelled to France and Germany, becoming Aalis (France) and Adalheidis (Germany) in the process before eventually travelling to the UK as Alice.

Of course once I had checked out my heroine I had to check my hero too, so Josh(ua) quickly became Will. I needed a name that was fairly common to the time and also one that had no religious connotations as that isn't part of my story. Joshua was a name only given to Jews in medieval times whereas William was introduced to Britain by William the Conqueror. It means Resolute Protector, a meaning derived from Will (desire) and helm (helmet). (Wilhelm in Germany)

I haven't decided yet whether the rest of the characters need totally authentic names although there are a couple I need to check out, but it is important that the two main characters do. Something that is becoming clearer to me as the book progresses. 

I also have to somehow marry together the Medieval Alice and the modern Alice despite the vast differences between them. In Medieval England peasant women had to marry whomsoever their father chose for them and even he had to ask his feudal lord for permission. While the lord rarely refused, he would often demand payment, especially if  the woman was leaving his land and thus reducing his workforce. 

In contrast, my modern Alice is independent. She makes her own decisions and is someone who can survive on her own, so finding a way to link the two together will require a certain amount of thought. I'm getting there though. 

Book Babies

 

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In the season that celebrate the birth of an extraordinary baby, it's fun to think about how babies are portrayed in our books. They are scene stealers, for sure, so must be used wisely!  

In literature as in life, how people react to babies is a real illumination of their character. The baby born to my heroine Ursula at the end of Book 2 of my American Civil War Brides series, Mercies of the Fallen, is featured prominently in Book 3, Ursula's Inheritance. I was delighted to draw on the effervescent spirit of my little grandson to fashion little Henry Ryan Buckley, born into the hands of his soldier father and uncle the middle of the infamous New York City Draft riots and massacres of the summer of 1863.

Baby D... always ready to inspire!

The joy of his mother's heart, Henry is also being cared by these two men when they're on army leave as Ursula's Inheritance begins. The novel's antagonists, out to steal his mother's inheritance, now have a new foe, as Ursula has an heir of her own. And they will stop at nothing. 

So Henry's got a squad of protectors besides his nearest and dearest. His father Captain Rowan sends for one of the three women who raised him after he was orphaned in Canada. Little Henry will soon be spouting French as well as English thanks to his devoted Tante Marie Agathe. And the whole family of Ursula's beloved cook and companion Miriam, who have escaped to the Brooklyn neighborhood of Weeksville after the riots, welcome Baby Henry into their thriving community. There's a mysterious teenaged orphan Penina (hiding behind her fan on the cover) who he takes a shine to, too. Was ever a little fellow so lucky?

I enjoyed featuring a baby to brighten my wartime story. Babies can be a wonderful presence in a novel, besides revealing the characters of all around them, and serving as symbols of our hope for a better future, when placed in any time period!

I hope readers will enjoy the antics of Baby Henry in Ursula's Inheritance.

Hola From Mexico

 

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In November my husband Will and I took our first holiday outside of Canada in 2 1/2 years. We flew to Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, on the Pacific coast, and spent our first week in Bucerias, a town on Banderas Bay north of PV and popular with Canadian snowbirds. 

Will and I have visited Bucerias before, but hadn't stayed overnight. We rented an Airbnb apartment that was a steep climb up a hill from the main street and beach. Our reward for this exercise several times a day was a glorious view from our deck of the town and ocean. 

This part of Mexico has relatively low reported COVID-19 cases, but low vaccine rates compared to Canada. We found the health protocols were pretty good. Large stores, restaurants, and crowded outdoor areas like markets had temperature-taking machines and hand sanitizer at the entrances. Mask recommendations were everywhere and observed to varying degrees. Our mostly outdoor lifestyle made us comfortable. Every day was sunny with highs around 30 degrees Celsius (86 degrees Fahrenheit). Great for the beach and pool, but hot walking up that hill mid-day.

A highlight of the week was a leisurely breakfast at Karen's, a beachfront restaurant, with my writer/editor friend Marie, who moved from Calgary to Bucerias eleven years ago. I met Marie through the Puerto Vallarta Writers Group, which I joined after my first trip to the area. The group emails were a warm reminder of my sunny times in Puerto Vallarta. Shortly after I joined, the group decided to publish a short story collection and invited members to submit their writing. I was thrilled when my story, Freezer Breakdown, was accepted and appeared in the collection, which Marie co-edited. The following year the group published Coast Lines 2 and another short story I wrote made the cut. Unfortunately, the Puerto Vallarta Writers Group folded shortly afterward, but Marie and I kept in touch.

Our second week, Will and I moved south down the bay to Nuevo Vallarta, where we rented a beachfront condominium with his sister. Our first full day we took a taxi to Sayulita, a surfing/hippie town up the coast. It was Sunday and Sayulita was packed with Mexican families along with the out-of-country tourists. It was fun to watch the surfing action on the beach.   

 

In Nuevo, we rented bicycles for two days to explore our local area. We wound up exploring more than we liked when we got lost trying to find Ernesto's, an out of the way restaurant we've enjoyed in the past. It turned out to be closed. Hot, hungry and thirsty, we biked back to a traditional Mexican restaurant we'd spotted on the way, and added a new restaurant to our favourites list. 

 

Refreshed by our fajitas, enchiladas and and drinks, we pedaled 'home' and cooled off at the beach, and later with an evening swim in the pool. 

This time of year, sea turtles hatch from nests all along the beach. On a morning walk, we watched the babies crawl over the sand to the ocean.

  

On a walk back from the pool, I made a new friend.   

 

         

We're now wrapping up our trip with ten nights in downtown Puerto Vallarta. It's a change from our first two locations. Streets are crowded with people. About 100 restaurants within a few blocks of our hotel tempt us with low prices and atmospheric settings on the beach, on sidewalks or in leafy courtyards. 

Our big excursion was a boat tour to Animas, a beach not accessible by vehicle. On the way, we snorkeled at Los Arcos, Puerto Vallarta's iconic rock formation. I saw a few fish, but would have been happy just to swim by the rocks and through the rock tunnel. The trip involved numerous transitions between boats, piers and shorelines that I couldn't have managed without the guides' helping hands. Most of our fellow passengers were younger than us and Mexican. Information in English was minimal and occasionally inaccurate, which made for some surprises. They became part of the adventure and the whole day was a lot of fun, capped by Mexican party games on the return trip.  

Los Arcos

Tomorrow, my birthday present from my kids will be dinner at The Iguana Restaurant in Casa Kimberly, the former home of Elizabeth Taylor. The actress's affair with actor Richard Burton during the location filming of the movie The Night of the Iguana launched Puerto Vallarta's tourism boom. The restaurant has panoramic views of the city and bay. We've booked a table for sunset. 

Looking down from The Iguana Restaurant

Burton and Taylor in Puerto Vallarta during the filming of The Night of Iguana

A few days from now we'll fly home to Calgary, where there's snow on the ground and temperatures around freezing. I see snowmen and reindeer holiday decorations all over Puerto Vallarta, and they seem weird in this tropical climate.